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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665219">My other self, my oracle, my prophet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gersaint/pseuds/gersaint'>gersaint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>15th Century CE RPF, Richard III - Shakespeare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Betrayal, Homoeroticism, Hubris, Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person, Regret, Shakespeare Quotations, evil medieval murderboyfriends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:42:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gersaint/pseuds/gersaint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>High-reaching Buckingham reflects.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Richard III of England/Henry Stafford Duke of Buckingham</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My other self, my oracle, my prophet</h2></a>
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    <p>You should’ve seen it coming.</p><p>You really, really, <em> really </em> should’ve seen it coming.</p><p>What did you think was going to happen? The two of you riding off into the sunset astride a white horse, his royal standard unfurling in the wind, your gauntlets gleaming as you clutched the reins and he held onto you from behind, his hands clasped around your waist, his crowned head resting on your shoulder?</p><p>You laugh in spite of yourself. God, no. You’re no idealist; you’ve always taken pride in your cold cynicism, in your ability to <em> see through things</em>.</p><p>And yet you could never see through him.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>What was it you wanted, anyway?</p><p>You cannot truthfully say, of course, that all you ever wanted was to make him king. No, there was very much something in it for you. Destroying the Woodvilles, for one thing; slaking your own vaunting ambition, for another. But neither is it true that it was all just theater, mummery, pure self-interest. If it had merely been that, no way in Hell would you have gone so far or done so much.</p><p>The last few hours before execution are best spent in contemplation. Not <em> prayer</em>, mind you – you’ve never been the meditative type, and at this point seeking God’s counsel seems as useless as begging for forgiveness. You think on more worldly matters.</p><p>Like the raven’s-wing darkness of his hair, and how not even sunlight could penetrate it, how it always seemed to absorb the light and turn it into still more darkness. Or the way you would (in happier times) discreetly offer him your shoulder or arm to lean upon when his deformity made him stumble. Or all the times you lay together on the riverbank after a sparring match – how unabashedly he’d take his doublet off around you (and only you), how you’d ignore the sky and the grass and the water for a glimpse of his pale hollow chest underneath his shirt, how he’d prop himself up on his good side as he spoke to you of all his glorious plans.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>As the clouds gather, darken, and finally burst with rain on the day of your execution, and the dirt path you’re led down turns to mud and slows your steps, and the rope binding your wrists chafes your skin without you even noticing it – you remember the words of the deposed queen.</p><p><em> When he </em> (quoth she) <em> shall split thy heart with sorrow, remember Margaret was a prophetess. </em></p><p>You probably should’ve known this feeling would come eventually – you’re a traitor, after all, and deserve nothing less than heartbreak – but when it comes it still hits you like an ambush. So this is it, then. It’s over. All the smiles (real or fake); all the worshipful names you had for him (spoken aloud or kept secret); all the hands (gloved or bare) gently tilting chins up, stroking arms, backs, shoulders; all the murder you committed (or let happen) for his sake.</p><p>And you can’t even claim any glory for yourself.</p><p>It should be the last thing on your mind as you’re led to the block, but you fixate on it anyway: the time you greeted him with a sweeping bow, but he grabbed you by your golden hair and pulled you into a kiss. A kiss that lasted far longer than it should have – a kiss that was so soft, it almost frightened you to know he could surrender himself to someone so thoroughly if he felt like it – a kiss that lingered on your mouth well into the night.</p><p>The thought takes your mind off the swing of the axe.</p>
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